In Which Sherlock Has a Serious Discussion
by Jessica R Vance
Summary: ... with an Old Acquaintance. "I'm no happier about this than you are, but I don't have much time and there are some very important things we need to make absolutely clear between us, all right?"


**In Which Sherlock Has a Serious Discussion with an Old Acquaintance**

"Listen here," Sherlock hissed, voice rough as he leveled an accusatory finger, "it's well past time you and I sat down and had this out. I'm no happier about this than you are, but I don't have much time and there are some very important things we need to make absolutely clear between us, all right?"

His penis made no reply; it just lay there.

John had, only moments earlier, 'popped out' to Tesco to get a few necessities. Sherlock figured now was as good a time as any to get this matter sorted, so as soon as he heard the latch downstairs shut, he'd undone his zip and pulled the offending appendage out. His testicles, while certainly conspirators, weren't of quite as much importance, so they'd stayed safely nestled where they belonged. His penis seemed to be enjoying the breath of fresh air, but was otherwise unresponsive – it lay placid over the fabric of his trousers.

"Good," Sherlock said with a curt nod. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, regarding it with the same stoic interest he used on corpses and crime scenes. "Now, as I said, we haven't much time alone together, so I may as well come straight to the point. John."

Ah, it seemed he had gotten its attention. "Stop that," he grunted, irritated. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You can't just leap at John every time he walks into a room." It lengthened a bit, seemingly in indignant protest. "I know you like him. I quite like him too. Don't tell him I said that," he added quickly. "But the fact of the matter is, your recent return to the land of the living has become very…" He searched for words. "Inconvenient."

A droop, then. He'd offended it. Good. "I don't understand you," he continued, tapping his index fingers against his lips in thought. "You and I have worked in near-perfect tandem over the last fifteen years or so." Corrective nudge. "Seventeen. Of course. The point is, you've been completely content to stay put, not moving about and making your presence known, for all that time. Then _one_ person comes along and suddenly you're behaving like you're on a bloody trampoline."

If he hadn't known better (and perhaps he didn't), he would think the resultant bob was meant to mock him. He frowned and something in his expression must have called off the dogs, as it were, because it settled quite sedately back down. "Much better. Now, what to do? Obviously you're not going anywhere, and I certainly hope the same can be said of John. Ah-ah." He wagged his finger like a cross nanny. "Don't get any ideas. God, if you start having a fit at the mention of his name alone, we will _definitely_ have a situation." He slumped further down in his chair. "No," he said, "I would not be more comfortable on the sofa. You're trying to trick me."

They stared at one another then, Sherlock listening half to the beginning patters of rain against the windowpane and half for the tell-tale groan of the front door. Finally he poked it. "Pay attention when I'm speaking to you," he muttered. His heart wasn't really in the reprimand. "You really must learn to behave." His voice took on a resigned tenor then, as though he knew he was wasting his time. Perhaps he was. "I – and by extension, you – work very closely with John (stop that) and I can't have you distracting me any time he's in the room. Because he's _usually_ in the room. Or near the room (really, stop). " No ferocity of glaring was helping now. He'd spent far too long focusing on the external source of the problem and not nearly enough chastising the one responding to the stimulus. He would dearly love to attack the dilemma at its source, at the very core of the issue, but he could hardly walk up to John and say, "Oh, by the way, your general appearance and proximity have a tendency to engorge the erectile tissue in my genitals. Please stop."

God, he could only imagine what John would say to that.

"No!" he rumbled as the problematic (and quite uninvited) participant seized hold of the idea. "No, he wouldn't. 'Let me take care of that for you'? Honestly, have you even _met_ John?" Uh-oh. "No, you haven't, and you're not _going_ to, because you're going to _behave yourself_ and not – oh, hell."

It was a lost cause. Sherlock tilted his head back against the soft leather of his chair, legs stretched halfway across the floor, nearly touching John's chair. He sighed and the puff of air lifted his fringe from his forehead momentarily. "You really are irritatingly persistent, you know," he mumbled. "Who the hell taught you that?" A quivering jerk sassed him. "Oh, shut up." He glanced at his phone, lying on the arm of the chair. John had only been gone for three or four minutes. That would barely give him enough time to get to the next street.

He had time.

Taking the problem firmly in hand, he gave it a few quick tugs. "This is ridiculous," he growled even as he stroked. "I never had to do this. There was never any need." He stretched his legs a bit more, toes gaining purchase in the pile of the rug. "Yes, of course, the cocaine. It does that, over the long term. I was rather hoping the effect would be permanent," he admitted, pausing long enough to spit into his palm before starting up again. "But it seems you've made a _spectacular_ recovery, thanks to," he chuckled, "the good doctor."

The rain was coming down in earnest now. Thunder complained uproariously as Sherlock closed his eyes, trying (and failing) to think of anything other than the good doctor. Of the way his hair stuck up in all directions when he was just out of bed or fresh from the shower. Of the way he padded about in bare feet on his way to make tea for the both of them. Of his smile, crooked in one corner before settling into delicious symmetry when his mirth (or, oddly, his displeasure) became too great to contain. Most of all (Sherlock tightened his grip and a muscle in his chest thumped), of the way he looked at Sherlock when Sherlock was being brilliant – which was all the time. He stared, eyes round and wide, looking quite breathless in wonder as he listened. No one looked at Sherlock that way, especially when he was noticing things. They rolled their eyes and scoffed with obvious jealousy, but John… John very plainly loved him for it.

"Oh –" was all Sherlock had time to say before spilling over the circle of his fist. Through his eyelids he saw another flare of lightning, heard the answering thunder almost directly afterward. His breathing slowed.

And then he heard the shuffle on the floorboard.

He didn't open his eyes – not immediately, anyway. In the space of a few milliseconds, he'd figured it out. John had only been gone for a bit, and the rain started when he was near enough to the flat to turn back. The first crash of thunder, the one that happened just as Sherlock began, had been more than enough to mask the opening of the front door, and the increasing sound of the rain coupled with Sherlock's own… _distraction_… had aided in blocking the sound of John ascending the stairs. Now he stood in the doorway, no doubt looking at Sherlock, no doubt putting two and semen together well enough to know what he'd just witnessed.

Maybe if he just kept his eyes closed, he could pretend this wasn't happening. It wouldn't work. Foolish whimsical nonsense. _This is all your fault_, he thought, as viciously as he could, at his penis.

"Um," John offered. Sherlock cracked one eye. John was staring past him, at a point somewhere roughly around the cow skull. His fists were clenched, held solidly at his sides (rage? No, something else. Awkwardness.). "Just came back to get my umbrella." He gestured to the stairs without really looking at them. Thunder interjected, but Sherlock wasn't listening. "Sorry," John added, voice tight, before fleeing the room with flushed cheeks.

Sherlock opened his eyes then and regarded the mess on his knuckles with a frown before looking back down. His penis was limp once more, spent and looking far more pleased with itself than it had any right to. Sherlock stood, using his clean hand to tuck it back into his trousers. As he did up his zip, he issued a warning:

"We are _not_ done talking about this."


End file.
